


Cinnamon

by noblydonedonnanoble



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 01:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/noblydonedonnanoble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was inspired by the song "Cinnamon" by Sean Fournier, although it has very little to do with the actual song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinnamon

Her lotion or shampoo or something must be cinnamon-scented, because that’s the smell that seems to follow her everywhere she goes. At first, I thought it was coincidental, but there’s no way it’s an accident. And there’s no way that she just so happens to be baking with cinnamon right before she sees me, since everyone who knows her wonders how many times she’s actually even turned on her oven.

Her house smells like it, too, a side effect of her having lived in it for years and years. Sometimes when I’m truly stressed, I go and visit her because she’s always had a knack for calming me down without even trying. I’ve become so accustomed to that smell that just walking into the house is a relief, and being with her is simply an added bonus. It just so happens to be a very large bonus.

The smell is addicting. Some days, I’ll give her hugs every ten minutes because the scent has started to fade. I don’t know if she’s figured out my reason behind this or not, although sometimes it seems like it because of the way she smirks every time I find a minute reason to lean forward and wrap my arms around her—except for those occasions where I give absolutely no reason, in which case her smirk becomes a genuine grin. I always catch that, although I like to pretend that I don’t. She knows anyway, so it’s not like I need to say.

When she’s gone, be it for business or just to get away, I miss the smell of cinnamon that followed me. It gets so bad that I might open up my cabinet and pull out the cinnamon, sprinkling some on toast or making some hot chocolate or honestly just letting it sit out so that if I close my eyes, it’s almost as though she’s in the room with me.

She made my bed smell like it too, almost to the point that it seemed like she poured whole jars of cinnamon all over. Some nights, when I lay awake missing her, I curled up with her pillow and the scent of cinnamon lulled me to sleep.

Now my bed smells like strawberries. It’s nice, I suppose, but it’s not the same. It’s not intoxicating, thrilling me to my very core.

Her bed, though. On those business trips that are really just twenty-minute drives, on those visits to my mother where I just so happen to never see my mother (funny how that works out), I am overwhelmed by the scent of cinnamon that lingers on her bed and clings to my skin no matter how hard I work to scrub it away.

She’s always told me that I smell like vanilla. And it’s a smell that remains on my side of the bed for days for days, until she’s smothered it once more.


End file.
